


The Here and the Now

by Pixial



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Arrows, Other, Reflection, Think Piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:07:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixial/pseuds/Pixial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzo's up for a little late night practice. Unfortunately, he can't exactly stop thinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Here and the Now

It was quiet. For a supposed military operation-- even an illegal one-- the headquarters got downright silent in the small hours before dawn. Usually, there was at least one person up and about, and he supposed if he could strain, he could hear the muffled thud of a bass from somewhere, but it was easily ignored. The important thing was that the training yard was empty, which meant it was Hanzo’s kingdom to rule. For the moment, anyway.

He set up the targets with an efficient grace that only years of training for this sort of exercise could create. Perhaps if someone was here, he’d ask them for help, but… If he wanted help, he wouldn’t have come down here at such a late (or early, he supposed) hour. When all five targets were arranged to his satisfaction, he stepped back to the firing line and picked up his bow. 

Hanzo adored that bow. He could always depend on it. It was supposedly an archaic choice of weapon, but he didn’t care. It was traditional, and he held much pride in the art he’d mastered. He was just as effective (if not superior, he thought with a sniff) a sniper with a bow as someone with a rifle.

Notching an arrow to the string, he sighed, sighted a target, and let go. The tension twanged out of the string as the arrow flew forward to thud in a bullseye, and a similar tension eased out of his body. This was good. Familiar. It was about the only thing in his life that made sense.

Which brought up the question that had been plaguing him for the past couple of weeks. Why was he here? Why Overwatch? He wasn’t interested in the great affairs of the world. The world was going to hell, and he was probably one of the many contributing factors. Nothing he, nor anyone else, would change that.

(Breathe, he told himself. Inhale, pull. Exhale, release. Never aim for the same target twice in a row. Makes you sloppy.)

There had never been a great deal of _good_ in his life to begin with, just an endless list of expectations to aim for. But Hanzo’d always been good at hitting what he aimed for. And as for _good_ , well… Success was good. His father’s rare, elusive approval was good. And for a while, he’d had his brother… Well, he’d neatly burned that little bridge, hadn’t he?

(Focus. Draw in one smooth motion. Don’t take so much time that you’re vulnerable, but don’t rush the sighting either. Find the balance between the two.)

What was he doing here? Overwatch needed his skills, yes, but why had he accepted? He was an assassin. Formerly the _head_ of an entire _family_ of assassins. There’d be trouble over that. He still couldn’t go anywhere _near_ Hanamura without at least one attempt on his life. If the Shimada found out where he was, they wouldn’t rest until he’d been silenced.

Not that they needed to worry. He didn’t care much about what they’d been doing the past several years, and any information he had was too out of date for Overwatch to use. All that was left to him was what he was doing. 

And he still didn’t know what that was. The question ate at him, chewing his heart and soul until he thought he’d go mad. When it got too much, he came down here. Alone, of course, but he was more than used to alone. He just wanted to focus, needed the release of energy into something he understood. 

His thoughts ran in circles, a muted background as he fired arrow after arrow. Each thump as a target was struck sent a dull satisfaction through him, even as his shoulders began to ache with the comfortable sense of work well done. He may not have understood his purpose in this band of misfits and idealists, but he’d be an asset, whatever it was.

Finally, he reached for an arrow and found the quiver empty. Sweat gleamed on his skin, dampening the strands of hair that had come loose from his tie. His breath huffed, too loud in the silence of the training yard. Hanzo shook his head, wiped the sweat from his eyes, and began collecting his arrows from the hapless targets.

What was he doing here, he asked himself again as he tugged shaft after shaft from the firm foam of the targets. He hadn’t missed a single shot, something he took grim pleasure in. If these had been men, they’d have been dead from the first arrow. 

Hanzo looked up suddenly, the last arrow in his hand. Something had changed in the atmosphere of the yard, a footstep or a breath. He dropped into a defensive stance, eyes sweeping to find the intruder. He caught the barest glimpse of something metallic glinting from the glow of the single light Hanzo had bothered to light. He recognized the stride of the fleeing watcher and relaxed.

What was he doing here, he asked himself one last time as he squared up to the firing line again, bow at the ready. 

He remembered the answer as he let the arrow fly.

He was atoning.


End file.
